


It's All Clear Now

by ivefoundmygoldfish (melonpanparade)



Series: Sherlock Rare Pair Bingo [2]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Gen, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-07-09
Updated: 2014-07-09
Packaged: 2018-02-08 03:29:23
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,750
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1925067
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/melonpanparade/pseuds/ivefoundmygoldfish
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>One of Sherlock's experiments leaves Greg with no choice but to wear his glasses. Mycroft finally makes his move.</p>
            </blockquote>





	It's All Clear Now

“Look, I can’t just… just make a murder appear out of nowhere. I swear to God, if this whole situation goes on for any longer, I’m going to be tempted to strangle him or strangle myself, and then he'll have his murder. Your brother needs to find something else to distract him rather than turning my flat into his personal lab.” It doesn’t take a Holmes to note the weariness and desperation in his voice. He’s had a trying week and he’s not above begging, so after a beat, Greg adds, “Please, Mycroft.” 

“Very well, Inspector. I shall try my best to find something to occupy Sherlock.”

“Plus a new place to live, too, if you can.” Greg rubs his temples, hoping to alleviate the headache that has been plaguing him ever since, well, ever since Sherlock, honestly. “How the hell did he manage to get kicked out this time, anyway?”

“He didn’t tell you?”

“No, he just barged into my flat one evening—picked the locks and all that—with his homeless network in tow, and dumped his stuff at my place!”

“…Gregory, I extend my utmost apologies. I was merely informed of Sherlock’s new residency via memo on a business trip, and was under the impression that you and Sherlock had come to an agreement regarding your living arrangements. Had I known earlier—”

“Mycroft, it’s okay. Well, it’s not, but I’m willing to let him kip on the couch until he finds a new place. And if he eats while he’s at mine, then that’s good too, ‘cause there’s no way being just skin and bones is healthy. Still, I will not stand for him leaving eyeballs in my microwave or soaking feet in my bathtub. Feet, Mycroft! Feet!”

“Oh. Oh dear. Yes, that does sound rather… never mind.” Mycroft’s scandalised tone conjures images of Mycroft in Greg’s mind, all impeccable and prim and proper with his three-piece suits and tea, living with Sherlock, only to come home to a barrage of bad smells, severed body parts, and whatever else Sherlock gets up to. It’s enough to bring a smile to Greg’s face. He tries desperately to tamp down the laugh that is threatening to rise, too, because Mycroft has just started speaking again. “You understand that he is reluctant to accept any form of help from me, so I cannot make any promises. I should, however, have several flats lined up for his choosing by tomorrow afternoon at the latest.”

“Yeah, I know how he is. Maybe if I’m the one to suggest new places to him… Goodness knows he’s not up for leaving his experiments for anything other than a decent crime scene, so hopefully he’ll be jumping at the opportunity to have a new place without having to do any of the hard work. Then he won’t be complaining about how my freezer isn’t large enough to accommodate for the body parts he’s been purloining from St. Bart’s,” Greg says dryly.

“You are a very patient man, Gregory. Sherlock is truly indebted to you.” There is a pause, then a whisper so faint that Greg has to strain his ears to hear it. “As am I.”  

“Despite all my whinging, he’s a good kid and I’m happy to help. Both you and him,” Greg clarifies. “Anyway, lunch break is almost over and the paperwork won’t do itself.” He heaves a sigh. “Damn, not even enough time to get a bloody coffee. I’ll catch you later, Mycroft.”

“Thank you, Gregory.”

When he returns to the Yard, there’s coffee waiting on his desk, accompanied by a note that says, _Once again, I am sorry. MH._

  

* * *

 

Following his afternoon coffee, the rest of Greg’s day is smooth sailing. As he stands outside of his flat, however, he senses that will change the very moment he crosses over the threshold.

One step in, and so far, so good. No explosions, burning smells, or dead bodies in his living room. Sherlock is occupied at the dining table with his microscope, so the flat should be safe long enough for him to change clothes and switch from his contact lenses to glasses.  

He’s rummaging around in his bathroom cupboard, searching for a new box of contacts in preparation for tomorrow when he notices he’s missing not one or two, but all of his bottles of contact solution. Oh, bloody hell. Sherlock. It’s not a big deal, he tries telling himself, and in the grand scheme of things, it really isn’t. But in addition to the eyeballs in the microwave and the feet in the bathtub—good heavens, they’re still there!—and whatever other experiments he doesn’t know about, well, he’s just about had it. Greg stomps over to the dining table and hovers over Sherlock with arms crossed over his chest.

“Sherlock, what happened to my contact solution?”

“Why does it matter?” Sherlock barely looks up. “You’re using your glasses now.”

“I need it for tomorrow, Sherlock.” It’s getting harder to resist the urge to knock everything off the table with one giant sweep of his arms. Keep calm, Greg reminds himself, so he grits his teeth, clenches his fists by his side, and asks once more, “What did you do with them?”

“Used it for science, Lestrade,” Sherlock mumbles, still focused on his microscope. “I thought that was rather obvious.”

“And I thought it was rather obvious that my contact solution solely exists for the purpose of my contacts!”

“I needed a large quantity of saline solution,” Sherlock shrugs. “I’m surprised you kept almost half a year’s supply. Doesn’t fit with how unprepared you are with everything else.”

“I don’t think anyone can be prepared for _anything_ that might happen where you’re concerned,” Greg growls.  

Sherlock ignores him. Greg rolls his eyes.

“I’m going out. Don’t forget to eat something and don’t expect me back tonight.” He grabs his coat on the way out, muttering a string of profanities underneath his breath.

 

* * *

 

Greg realises he really isn’t thinking straight if he’s punching out an anger-driven message to Mycroft. Still, it’s cold, it’s dark, and he’s just stomped out in a Sherlock-induced rage with no intention of going back inside anytime soon.

_Pick me up and get me out of here. I am so close to murdering that bloody wanker._

He receives a reply almost immediately.

_15 minutes. MH_

The fifteen minute wait does him good. He’s calmed down a little and no longer feels like he wants to kill someone. That wouldn’t have looked good on the headlines anyway—a DI belonging to the Homicide and Serious Crime Command responsible for murder. He doesn’t think Sherlock’s personal quirks conflicting with common sense can be used as a basis to argue self-defence, either. Greg smiles wryly.

When the black car pulls up to the kerb, he’s pleasantly surprised to see Mycroft sitting in the back seat, proffering a steaming cup. Mycroft’s eyes widen momentarily before he quickly schools his face into an apologetic expression.

“I wished I could have been here sooner, however I had some matters to attend to before I could leave. I hope this makes up for it.”

“You didn’t have to come personally,” Greg says, shaking his head. He’s grateful, though, for Mycroft’s presence and the hot beverage, which he gladly accepts. He allows the warmth to seep into his cold hands before taking a small sip. “Hot chocolate?”

“I… find that something sweet works wonders when I am testy. I thought it might have the same effect for you, too.”

“Mmm, thank you; it’s good.”

The steam is beginning to fog up the lens of his glasses when Mycroft reaches across and gently removes them for him. He gives Greg’s drink a pointed look, as if to explain the rationale behind his actions, yet the attention Mycroft pays his glasses afterwards suggests otherwise. Mycroft is turning them over in his hands, holding them delicately, running his fingers along the temples, cataloguing every scratch and smear, deducing their use and history.

“They’re not new,” Mycroft says eventually. “So why have I never seen you wear them before?”

“Contacts for work,” Greg replies, voice catching in his throat from holding his breath for too long. He’s still entranced by Mycroft’s fingers caressing his glasses. “Never know when I have to chase after a suspect.”

“What a shame. You’re… you’re beautiful in them,” Mycroft murmurs, carefully putting them back on Greg’s face.

Greg looks up. The pink dusting across Mycroft’s cheekbones comes into focus; as does everything else about him—did he always have those freckles, or those clear blue eyes? And how about that look of yearning, reflecting how Greg has felt about him for so long?

Greg vaguely registers Mycroft tugging his drink away from him to stash it in one of the cup holders. Instead, all of his senses are bristling with excitement and anticipation as Mycroft leans in closer to him, so close that Greg can feel warm puffs of breath ghost across his face, and then finally, Mycroft’s lips brushing against his own.

 

* * *

 

When he sneaks back into his flat early next morning, Sherlock is still awake. Sherlock takes one look at him—one long, scrutinising gaze—and then announces, “I’m moving out.”

“Why, all of a sudden?” Greg doesn’t even bother hiding his grin. While he and Mycroft had barely explored second base, there certainly were marks to show for what _had_ happened. No doubt Sherlock had picked up on them immediately. Greg cracks his neck slowly, stretching in a way he knows will show off the mark on his neck.

“Ugh. If you intend on pursuing a relationship with Mycroft,” Sherlock pauses to pull a face of disgust, “I do not want a daily reminder of Mycroft’s—Mycroft’s whatever,” he finishes in a huff.

“A justified choice, then, because I am very intent on pursuing a relationship with Mycroft.” Greg chuckles at Sherlock’s visible shudder, and then decides to have a little more fun after the hell Sherlock’s been putting him through. Make him feel responsible and all that. After all, aside from knowing that your brother has a love life, there’s nothing more a younger brother would hate than knowing that he _caused_ it. “Oh, and Sherlock?” Sherlock grunts in lieu of a response. “Good experiment you did yesterday, mate. Wearing glasses really cleared things up for me. And for Mycroft, too, it seems. Thanks.”

It's a well-deserved victory for Greg when Sherlock makes a horrified sound and flees the room.


End file.
